


Born To Die

by Queer_Trash_Queen



Category: American Horror Story
Genre: F/M, Murder House, altered timeline, season one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-20 21:39:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queer_Trash_Queen/pseuds/Queer_Trash_Queen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tate and Violet's lives before, during, and after what we get to see on the show. <br/>Based off of Lana del Ray's song Born To Die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First fic for this fandom on this site. This chapter is set way before the move to LA, FYI. Violet is eleven years old.  
> Criticisms are greatly welcomed:) (No really I need to know if this sucks or not.) I apologize for the length, but this chapter is one of the shortest, so they will be getting longer.

_Feet don’t fail me now/ Take me to the finish line_

    The first time Tate walks in on her cutting herself – _You’re doing it wrong. If you’re trying to kill yourself, cut vertically. They can’t stitch that up. If you’re trying to kill yourself, you might also try locking the door_ \- was not the first time she thought about dying. No, not dying. Killing herself.

    The first time was long before her mother lost the baby, before her father cheated, before they moved across the country. They were a happy family, a normal family. She was around eleven, maybe twelve, and she was just starting to see the world for what it really was: vast and dark and cruel. Her escape from her newly discovered reality was the roof of their house. Her room – a renovated attic space – had a very small window, the perfect size for a small, skinny girl like herself to wriggle through. Just under her window was a teensy ledge that she could stand on if she stood all the way on the tips of her toes. She was pleased that the years of ballet lessons (that she secretly loved, not that she would never admit that to anyone, ever) had come in handy in the real world. The first time she discovered the ledge, she had the strange thought of thanking her mother for moving them into this new house. If she ever told her mother about her secret rooftop excursions, that is. The lip of the roof was just barely graspable on tiptoe. Sometimes, she had to do a very careful, very practiced jump to grab it and pull herself up enough to swing a leg over. She always remembered to lock her door, but left her window open so that she could hear if her parents happened to call her.

    Sometimes she’d bring a book and a snack, or her homework, but mostly she just sat up there and watched and thought. It was quiet, and she was completely alone for once. She liked to look out over the hundreds of identical houses that made up the gated community they lived in. It made her think that the world couldn't possibly be as enormous as everyone said it was. Surely it had to end where she stopped seeing the land laid out.

    She would often think about what would happen to her if she fell off the roof. But she’d never actually _fall_ off, no. She was far too careful for that. She’d have to jump. She’d picture what her body would look like when she landed –SPLAT! – all twisted and broken. Something inside her used to whisper seductively that she was _invincible _. It told her that such a little fall couldn't possibly hurt her, much less kill her. Logically, she knew that the voice was lying to her. But still, she felt compelled to do as it said and test her mortality, as children often do.__

    It was beautifully sunny on the day that evil little voice finally triumphed over her common sense. The breeze made her sway, whipped her hair about her face playfully. When she stood from her spot and walked to the edge of the roof, she didn't even realize she had moved. Her toes hung off the edge, and the rush of looking down at the sidewalk below was a preview of what she thought was to come.

    Someone on the street must have seen her standing up there, because the next thing she can remember is her father struggling out of her tiny window and heaving himself up onto the roof. She vaguely remembers him inching towards her slowly, a stream of soft, comforting words falling on deaf ears. _“Why don’t you come away from there, Vi? Sweetheart, back away from the edge. Just back up slowly, baby. It’s okay. I’ll get you down. We’ll be fine.”_ She stayed where she was, letting the wind gently rock her as she stared at the grey pavement and the bright green grass waiting for her.

    When her father finally reached her, he pulled her into his arms like she was an infant again. _“It’s okay. I've got you. You’re okay. You’re safe now.”_ He carried her back across the roof carefully, futilely reassuring her through his tears. “I was only looking,” she mumbled dazedly.

    Later, when her parents questioned her, her father took the soft approach: _“Violet, honey, why were you on the roof?”_ and her mother the louder one: _“What were you thinking? What would have happened if you’d fallen?”_ I would have died, she thought. I should have died.

But all she could say was _“I was only looking.”_

 

* * *

 

That was the first time she felt the pull of the darkness, but not the last.


	2. Come Take A Walk On The Wild Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Violet forces herself to face the truth about Tate and the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite a large time skip from the last chapter. This is set in 1x06 when Violet overdoses. Large portions of dialogue are taken straight from the episode. Enjoy:)

 

_Come take a walk on the wild side/ let me kiss you in the pouring rain/ You like your girls insane_

            The chalkboard stunt is the last straw. She can’t take it anymore. She wants to die. No, she _needs_ to die. Maybe not die, but she needs to sleep for a very long time, maybe forever.  There’s too much going on in her head. So much confusion and pain. And so very many lies. Tate wouldn’t lie to her, not about something like this. Would he? She can’t think straight, can’t see through her tears. All that stuff about Westfield can’t be true. And those kids, the ones who came after them on Halloween…they were just playing a joke. They weren’t really dead. Tate didn’t kill them. He didn’t set his mother’s lover on fire – and oh, god, Constance is his mother – and then go to his school and kill fifteen kids for no reason. He’d never do something like that. And he wasn’t dead. He didn’t die before she was even born. That craigslist medium of Constance’s is full of bullshit. But it all fits. You couldn’t fake that many articles, even on the internet. And the plaque in the library, and the paralyzed librarian _at her own school._ It all fits perfectly.

            She immediately reaches for the box of razors in the drawer of her night table, then changes her mind. She made a promise to Tate…her dead... boyfriend(?).  She promised she wouldn’t _ever_ use them again. _“Gross,” she’d spat when he put his mouth to her still bleeding cuts. “You’re right, it is. You mutilating yourself.” He said matter of factly.”You do it,” she retorted. “Not anymore. Promise me you’ll never cut yourself again.” The fierceness with which he said these words startled her. She looked away, holding back her answer. She knew she was in over her head when she looked up at him and said: “I promise.”_

            Then she remembers the pills. Leah had given her almost a whole bottle of them.She digs through her backpack and pulls out the bottle. She pries off the lid and dumps a few into her clammy palm. There’s more than enough in the bottle to do the job, but she’ll take them all just to be sure. She twists the cap off her water bottle and shoves the pills in her mouth. She gags as they go down, but chases them with a gulp of water and another fistful of sleeping pills. Another drink of water, another handful of pills, another step closer to peace. The bottle’s half empty, and she’s starting to feel the effects. Her eyelids droop and her breathing is labored and shallow, though that could be from the crying. She empties the bottle and lays down on her bed. She stares at the inside of the now empty pill bottle lying next to her. Her water bottle tips over and the last bit of water spills onto her bedspread. Her eyes close, and at last her mind is quiet and she is peaceful.

 

* * *

 

            And then she’s not. She’s vomiting all over herself, and Tate is holding her, and they are wet. _Why is it raining?_ She thinks through the fog. And then she realizes that if she can feel the icy water, she is still alive. She cries, and Tate is crying with her. He kisses her and strokes her hair, and she is still so tired. Tate must have saved her. Tate, the first boy to ever give her a flower – _I painted it black, I know how you don’t like normal things -_  who loves her – _there, on her chalkboard, in giant letters._ _I  LOVE YOU_ _–_ Tate, who is dead. She closes her eyes. He’ll understand. He always does. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think.


	3. You and I, We Were Born to Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Violet's thoughts after the season finale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another short one, but it is important. Hope you're enjoying.

_You and I, we were born to die_

 

_"Please, Tate, please. I don't want to die."_

_"It's too late for that Violet."_

    When she took all those pills, she though she did want to die. But she changed her mind when she found out that the forever she thought she'd committed to wasn't nothingness, but a living death. Able to think and feel and die (again); the Murder House is merely an inescapable continuation of life.

    Forever had seemed so easy when it was an escape. Now she knows it is hell. Stretched out before her, an eternity stuck in this damned house. A house chock full of spirits, both malicious and benign. The cast is colorful, she'll admit, but it includes her parents, her dead infant sibling and her...and Tate.

    Her sweet, loving ( albeit dark) Tate, who turned out to be none of those things. He's beyond being consumed by darkness. He  _ **is**_  the darkness. He loves her, she does not doubt that. And she loves him, no matter how she denies it. But he is a murderer, a rapist...a monster. She doesn't regret sending him away, but that's probably because the last few days haven't quite sunk in yet. She's only been dead - well, only _known_ she's dead for a few days. She's still coming to terms with that, discovering the rules of the house, the things she can and can't do. And then there's all the other to get to know.

    There's sweet, mislead Nora who just wants a second chance at being a mother. Moira, who is tired of being dead. Hayden, who doesn't appear to have been changed much by death. Beau, who is shy and quiet but definitely the friendliest of them all. Thaddeus, who stays in the shadows and leaves her alone now that she's dead. Constance's lover Travis, the two girls in nurses uniforms, Nora's creepy husband...there's so many of them.

    So, no, she doesn't regret sending Tate away; but she also knows it is a question of when, not _if_ her will breaks and she calls him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You made it to the end! Thanks for continuing to read this:) If you have any questions about timelines or anything feel free to ask.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look into the terrifying place that is Tate Langdon's head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another fairly short one, but I can only take so much of being inside Tate's head. I swear they'll get longer eventually, and let me know if you spot any mistakes.

    It's been about a month since she sent him away. He's asked Nora to explain to her that he  _did_  have good intentions, even if his actions were unspeakable. He watches as she tells Violet that he was only trying to repay her for saving his life as a child, for helping him adjust to life as a dead person, and for being more of a mother to him than Constance ever was. He thinks she believes it.

    The thing is, Chad and Patrick... they couldn't give Nora what she wanted. Especially after they started fighting and decided not to adopt. So he killed them, jus to hurry along the inevitable fate that comes with living in the Murder House. Whether he enjoyed donning the gimp suit and wreaking havoc...well, that's not the point. The point is he was only trying to help.

    And then when Violet and we parents moved in...Vivien seemed like the logical option. She could obviously carry children, and she seemed strong, willful. He didn't know about the miscarriage until after, or he wouldn't have chosen her at all. He would have just killed them all. When the deed was done, and he was sure she was carrying a baby for him to steal away to Nora, he felt no guilt. No, that would come later. He never considered Violet, not for one second. He wanted to protect her from the start.

    Violet. She threw a wrench in his plans. She made him  _feel_ , somethin uncommon for him unless blood and death and screaming were involved. She  _changed_  him, she really did. She made him feel guilt, regret, remorse, love, hate, passion. He loved her, and he was genuinely sorry for all the secrets he had to keep from her, for all the pain he had amused her and her family.

    He never in a million years thought that the abomination he created was possible. He'd never heard the legend/prophecy that the child of a spirit (him) and a human (Vivien, her  _mother_ ) would grow into the antichrist, bringer of death, destruction, and the apocalypse. He never expected the...thing to feed off its twin (the one fathered by Ben) and rip Vivien apart in the process.

    Fathered. It's strange to think that he's a father, that somewhere out there he has a son. A son who is the fucking  _antichrist_ , and is being raised by a woman who couldn't take care of her own children, let alone someone else's. God, he hates Constance for stealing him away. He would have killed Michael, to protect Violet and the others, but no. Constance wants a shot at greatness- and she'll take it anyway she can get it.

    And - he literally gags whenever he thinks this - technically Michael is Violet's  _brother_. How sick is that? How must she feel, knowing he things he's done? He hopes she doesn't think she's his second choice, that he wanted Vivien but settle for her daughter. He doesn't blame her for sending him away... but he still wishes she hadn't. There's so much more he wants to say to her. He thinks a lot about her parting gift, the only time she ever said " _I love you_ ," followed by the worst possible punishment.

    He can see her, hear her, smell her; but he can't touch her or speak to her. He can't comfort her when she sits in the crawlspace next to her rotten corpse, avoiding her mother. He can't reassure her when Hayden torments her about her father's unfaithfulness and claims that she's "gotten a piece of her boy toy", or when the teenage son of one of the families that moves into the house befriends her and then hangs himself in her bedroom.

* * *

 

    He can only watch, and pray she'll let him come back to her one day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do let me know if you catch any grammar/spelling mistakes. I try my best to get them all, but it is five am and i haven't slept in a few days:p


	5. Lost but Now I am Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The anniversary of Violate's death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapters will be longer eventually, I swear.

_Lost but now I am found_

 

    It's the anniversary of her death, and she's alone. She still can't look at her mother without feeling sick, and her father has nothing to say to her now that he can't "fix" her. She gets the feeling that he blames her for everything, because she  _is_  the one who brought Tate out if her father's office and into their personal lives.

    The others can't remember what year it is, let alone special days like this. Not that they'd care if they could remember. She's been wandering the house all day, trying to keep her mind off  _him_  and actively avoiding the bathroom. Eventually she makes her way to her room. It's been changed in the two years since she's died, but she still thinks of it as hers. She wonders if he still thinks of it as his –  ** _no_** , she won't go there. She refuses to turn into Nora, crying all the time and forgetting she's dead. She makes the door slam behind her without touching it, and goes to flop on the bed.

    She stops cold when she sees it. A thousand memories rush through her head. It makes her throat ache and her eyes fill with tears. She takes a shuddering breath, even though she no longer needs oxygen, just to try and calm herself. It looks harmless enough, really. It's just a sweater; a worn, old striped sweater. But it's  _so_  much more. Tentatively, she lifts it off the bed. She almost tosses it aside, but changes her mind at the last minute. She looks around guiltily – though he or any of the others could be there, invisible, and she would be none the wiser – and hugs it to her chest. She buries her face in it and inhaled deeply. It still  _smells_  like him.

    She slips it over her head and remembers the last time she saw him wearing it. They were in the bathtub together, crying under the spray of icy water as he held her like she was the most precious thing in the world. She doesn't remember what happened next (she knows she died, but she still has no memory of it.) When she "woke up" in her bed, he had on different, dry clothes.

    "Thank you," she whispers, hoping against all odds that he hears and know how much she truly means it. It's been two years, and while she hasn't forgiven him, she  _misses_  him. At least she has proof he's still in the house. It's odd, how she instantly feels safer knowing he's watching over her. His promise to her echoes in her mind: "I would never let anybody or anything hurt you." But he broke that promise long before he made it. He hurt her, more than she ever thought was possible.

In that moment of weakness, though, she almost calls him back to her. Almost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if you like it or not.


	6. Take a Walk on the Wildside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Long(ish) chapter! And a bunch of dialogue straight from the show!

_Choose your last words / This is the last time_

_"You knew you were dead." It's an accusation, not a statement. "Yeah," he frowns. "Do you know why?" He sighs. "The cops shot me. In this room." He at least remembers that much. Or maybe he's just lying again. She can't tell. "Why did they shoot you?" She demands. Tate looks confused. "I don't know." He sound like a frightened little boy, and that almost makes her falter, but then she thinks of her mother bleeding on the bedsheets downstairs and pushes on._

_"You_ _**murdered** _ _people Tate. Kids, like us. The kids who came to us on Halloween." Hs beautiful brown eyes widen and his mouth drops open. "Why would I do that? Why would I do that? Why would I do that? Why would I do that?" So he wasn't lying before. He honestly didn't remember. It's too late to stop now, no matter how badly she just wants to hold him and tell him everything will be okay. "Why'd you kill the guys who lived here before us? Why would you_ _**rape** _ _my_ _**mother** _ _?" She's being cruel, and she knows it. She likes it. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," Tate whispers. It sounds like he means it, but the things he's done...they're unforgivable. "I used to think you were like me, you were attracted to the darkness. Tate, you_ _**are** _ _the darkness." Twist the blade a little more, break his heart. It's the least she can do._

_"I was different then. You've changed me, Violet." He sounds like he's trying to convince himself more than her. "I believe that," she lies. "I love you Tate..." And she hates that it's the truth. "But I can't forgive you." Raise his hopes then crush them. Break him. Tear him apart. "You have to /pay/ for what you did. All the pain you caused, all the sorrow. You murdered my mother!" He flinches at her sudden shout. She clenches her jaw, regaining control over her emotions, tucking them away to be dealt with later. "No!" She steps backwards. "Yes, you did! The baby...whatever it was, it killed her. I can't be with you, I_ _**won't** _ _be with you." He steps towards her, she moves away. It's a dance, a dark, twisted dance. "What are you saying?" His eyes are full of tears._

_"I'm saying go away," she spits coldly. "What? No! Don't do this!" He begs, but she stands her ground. He's crying, and so is she. They seem to do that a lot, the two of them. "Go away, Tate," she says forcefully. "You're all I want! You're all I have!" But he's already fading. She squeezes her eyes shut. "Go away! Go away!" His screams mix with her own as she banishes him. When she opens her eyes, she is alone._

    That day still echoes in her mind. Sometimes she relives every moment of it, like she's there again. Most of the time it's on the fray of things, like a song stuck in her head. It's been almost eleven years since that day. She hasn't said his name, not even alone in the darkness of her - their- bedroom in over a decade. She can't say it aloud without calling him back, but she can say it her head all she wants. Over and over, a constant stream of _Tatetatetatetatetate_  that never lets her forget even for a moment, that she's in love with a monster.

    A few weeks after she sent him away she slipped down to the basement to find Nora. She'd pretended to smile and lied through her teeth to the poor confused woman. Violet had promised her a baby, the very same baby that was already dead and waiting for her, in exchange for some answers about being dead. Nora had eagerly explained as much as she knew. "Oh, and if any of the spirits in this house ever give you any trouble, any at all, you just tell them to go away. They'll still be able to see you, but you won't see them, and they can't harm you or even speak to you. Just be careful with names. Names have a certain...power in this house." Then Nora had asked about "her baby" to which Violet replied: "Your baby's dead, Nora," And left the befuddled ghost to wander around crying for her baby.

    She's found over time that she is the only one who cannot see him. Her father talks to him, though he never mentions it to her. But she knows. Countless times, she's walked into a room and her father has been talking to an empty chair. There's always a moment after she enters the room where her father looks between a particular place of "nothing" and Violet; and she can  _feel_  his eyes on her. She refuses to look at him on purpose to punish him that much more.

    Times like those are what make her almost cave. Once, she'd almost undone all her hard work in a moment of vulnerability. She'd felt his eyes on her suddenly, felt a presence unnaturally close to her back, and his smell had overpowered the cookies the newest resident was baking. "Ta...king a walk. Want to come?" Her mother had given her an odd look. She'd take that any day over having to see him before she's ready. She could practically taste the disappointment in the air as she quickly exited the kitchen.

    She's taken to walking the perimeter of the property, balancing on the low stone wall that imprisons them all, because she knows he hates it. He hates knowing the absolute limits of his roaming, prefers to stay inside and pretend he doesn't know he's trapped forever. At least, he did when she was alive. She'll sit with her feet in the pool that Marcy had put in to make the place more appealing. The water always feels icy, the exact temperature of the shower the day she died. The pool always makes her thoughts wander to Moira and Hayden. They were so happy when they found out they would be found. The day they'd cemented the shallow end of the pool a foot over their bodies, Moira had caused an "accident" that killed two of the workers.

    Violet sympathizes with her. To one so close to escaping this house not once, but twice, and having it snatched away each time... she couldn't bear it. She been in the same position two years before, when she'd befriended the latest family's teenage son using the same neighbor guise as Tate. She'd brought him up to the attic, gotten him so close to the crawlspace where she was now nothing more than bones and rags. They'd been interrupted by Maria and Gladys, and the boy killed himself two days later, driven mad by the house. To be honest, she's not even sure that having her corpse found would free her from the Murder House. Lorraine and her girls weren't buried or hidden on the property, but they were trapped all the same. So were Elizabeth, Chad, Patrick, and...Tate. In fact, she's pretty sure Moira made the whole thing up, just to give herself a bit of hope, something to hold on to. She's pretty sure that they're all stuck in this damned house, no matter what.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter may take a bit longer. I have to type it up (it's already written, but it's sitting in a notebook and has been for a while.)


	7. Is It By Mistake Or Design

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Almost becomes oops.

_Is it by mistake or design?_   


    She doesn't _mean_ to do it. It just slips out. Honestly, she's surprised she's lasted as long as she has. She's just overheard the new realtor on the phone with the latest property owners. "Yes, mhm. Oh, I've been thinking that for years. Oh, yes. They've talked about renovating before, but _I_ think they should just knock the whole thing down. Or maybe just bring in some demolition man and blow the while place to smithereens. Wouldn't that be delightful? Yes. I could arrange that no problem. Uh-huh. Alrighty, dear. Yes, bye-bye now." She's frightened, and early two decades later her first instinct is still to run to him. His name falls from her lips before she can stop it.   
  
    "Tate!"  
  
     He is standing in front of her in an instant, looking shocked. Then he is embracing her, kissing her cheeks, her nose, her forehead, her eyebrows. The first thing he says is her name. "I'm sorry." Is the second. "I'm so sorry, Vi." She lets him hold her because she doesn't know what else to do, and though he still isn't forgiven, she has to admit it feels nice to be held like this. He's still the first boy she ever loved, she just knows about his darkness now. She's let her own darkness grow over the years. She's hurt people, killed them. She's not so different from him now. "I'm sorry, Violet. I love you," he whispers into her hair.   
  
    She gently pushes him away. "Please don't say it," he begs. Her mouth opens, and she means to say it, but what comes out instead is much worse. "I love you too, Tate. I missed you." He looks like he's going to cry, but instead he wraps his arms around her again and kisses her. And god, she's missed kissing him. "I still don't forgive you," she breathes between kisses. He shrugs. "I know. But we're the same now. You can't stay mad at me forever." And forever is how long they have.   
  
    "They're going to demolish the house. Tear it down, blow it up." She's near tears now. "What's going to happen to us, Tate?" He looks down at her. "I don't know," he says honestly. She hesitantly brings her arms up and loops them around his middle. "Please don't leave me." She mumbles into his shoulder. "Never." They ignore the fact that she's the one who made him go away in the first place. "What are we going to do?" She asks, voice small. "I don't know, Vi. We'll figure something out. We always do."

* * *

  
  
    No one in the house dares say anything when they start spending time together again – not even her parents. It was never awkward between them before, and it isn't now. They fall back into an easy rhythm, now that there's nothing left to lose. Everyone they ever loved is dead or long gone; there's nothing for then to use against each other, nothing that can be broken, especially since their trust is long gone. They love each other, that's certain, and they spend most of their time together, but there is no trust between them.   
  
    There are some days when she's almost able to pretend that neither of them died, that they're a normal teenage couple. And then there are other days when she can't bear to look at him without feeling a combination of overwhelming rage and sadness. On those days she sits in the crawlspace with her bones, and he knows well enough to leave her alone.   
  
    They've come up with a plan to deal with the realtor. Halloween is a week away, and for the first time since she died, she's going to leave the property. They'll pay a little visit to the realtor that night, with the help of the Harvey’s, Charles (no matter how much he creeps Violet out), Maria, and Gladys. Tate only tells her the general plan, keeping the finer details to himself for now. She hopes that they don't plan on killing the realtor. She doesn't want any more blood on her hands. He assures her that if she doesn't want to see what they're going to do, he'll let Travis wear the rubber suit and they'll go to the beach together. She says she'll think about it, and make a final decision Halloween night.   


* * *

  
  
    Violet begs off at the last moment. They're filing out of the house, and her hand is in Tate's. She squeezes his hand tightly and pulls him to the side. She doesn't say anything, and she doesn't have to. He knows. "I figured you'd want to sit this one out." He calls for Travis, who appears already in costume. "Thank you," she says quietly, meant for his ears only. She kisses him and he smiles. "You're welcome. What do you want to do tonight?" She bites her lower lip. "I was thinking...maybe we could go out? Like, on a date?" She tilts her head a bit back to gauge his reaction. "Violet Harmon, are you asking me out?" He teases. She smacks his shoulder. "Shut up," she mutters, blushing. Tate laughs, pulling her closer. "So, where do you propose we go on this date, ma'am?"   
  
    She smiles at the southern accent that he puts on, something that must come easily to him after being raised by a southern belle like Constance. "We could see a movie? Or we could just walk around the city. Or...um, I don't know. I haven't been out in so long," she says sheepishly. "We could always go down to the beach,” he suggests. She thinks that’s fitting. The beach _was_ kind of the start of their downward spiral. She nods her agreement and he grins.

 

* * *

 

 

    Their second date is a lot like their first: they talk, kiss, catch up on the things they missed in their years apart, kiss, have a competition to see who can throw pebbles the farthest into the ocean, kiss some more – just without the dead breakfast club interrupting. They only head back to the house when to sun begins to creep over the horizon. Tate stands up, brushes sand off his pants, and offers her a hand. She takes it and he pulls her up. Violet doesn’t let go of his hand as they walk down the beach, and it means more than either of them are willing to admit.

 

               “What happens if we don’t make it back to the house before the sun is up?” She asks as they join the parade of ghosts that are all headed to the murder house. Tate shrugs. “I don’t know,” he admits. “That’s never happened before. At least, not to any of us.” She leans her head on his shoulder. “We should try it next year, just to see what happens.” They walk through the open gate and into the house. “Next year,” he agrees, and she knows he’s overjoyed that she thinks there will _be_ a next year.

 


	8. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tate shows Violet his scars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one is short again, but the next one is longer.

          "Tate?" He looks up from his book. "You were shot, right?" He nods. "How come you don't have scars or anything?" He shrugs. "I keep them hidden. I don't like them." She takes the book from his hands and sets it in the floor next to the recliner, then sits in his lap. With his back to the arm of the chair and her legs on either side of him, he's trapped. He can't wriggle out of it this time. "I want to see them." She states plainly. "Violet, I don't think you–" she cuts off his protests by pushing his sweater up. "Shut up, Tate," she says sharply. Her fingers skate over his stomach and chest, feeling for any imperfections. He shivers under her touch. "Jesus, Vi, your hands are like ice," he complains. She rolls her eyes. "Well, duh. I'm dead. Now show me." She demands. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. She moves her gaze from his face to his torso. Slowly, several round wounds appear on his chest. His face grows paler, the bags under his eyes more prominent, and the blood from the bullet holes flows around the hands she has firmly pressed to his chest, warm and sticky.   
  
          It seeps into the cushions, staining it a rusty brown. She counts them, sixteen in all. "Sixteen?" She asks. "Isn't that a bit of an overkill?" He opens his eyes and stares straight at her. He takes her hands - now cover in his blood - in his own, lacing their fingers together. "Seventeen," he replies, gesturing with their joined hands at the one her palm had been resting on. She looks on, fascinated, as he makes them gradually fade away. When they're gone, the blood still remains. Their blood slicked hands slide apart as he releases her to pull his sweater back down.   
  
          "Happy?" She shrugs. "Yes...and no. I get that they had to shoot you, but did they really need to be so trigger happy?" He sighs, sliding so that he's lying down, his head on the arm of the chair and his legs dangling over the side. She's leaning over him, hair tickling his face. He pulls her down on top of him, and she rests her head on his chest. He runs a hand through her hair, leaving long reddish streaks in it. "I pulled a gun on them," he admits. To his surprise, she laughs.

 

               "You didn't? Oh my god, Tate! Only you would try and take an entire SWAT team out with a single gun. She presses her hand against his face, admiring the contrast between his pale skin and the dark red of the blood. "I don't think I wanted to kill them. I think I wanted to be the one to kill myself." He looks at her, feeling her sudden intake of breath against his stomach. "That's twisted..." she says."I know. But so was I. You know what they never talked about? I was high out of my fucking mind that day. Nothing felt _real_. I thought maybe I was dreaming. Part of me knew I wasn't, but I wanted to believe I was."  
  
           She's tracing the contours of his face, leaving a sticky red trail veins. Her fingertips wander to his eyelids, and he closes them. The slight weight of her pressed against him disappears. When he opens his eyes, she's gone. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading I hope you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> If you made it this far thanks:)  
> Please let me know what you think. Also, this will partially follow the story line of season one of ahs, but there will be some slight variations and/or parts left out for the sake of creativity.


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